


Incendiary

by scbistg



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, BAMF Han Jisung, Lee know-centric, M/M, Selectively Mute Felix, Slow Burn, Sniper Lee Minho | Lee Know, more listed on notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 02:09:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15920754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scbistg/pseuds/scbistg
Summary: Minho is in trouble. He knows this much by now, watching Jisung from the periphery of his sight. The way Jisung fight, Minho could write poetries about it.It's an art of its own, that's what it is. A fucking masterpiece.





	Incendiary

**Author's Note:**

> So basically i had an idea and ran with it.  
> Mostly word vomit and self indulgent, curse words will be present, and characters are aged up. Minho is 24, i kept the age gap so Jisung is 22, and the others follow respectively. There will be violence, not too much though, mostly fights? in next chapters but i put the warning up just to be safe. Mental health, it's not mentioned clearly but Felix suffers from some form of ptsd which leads him to develop a rather codependent relationship with Minho. Please let me know if there are other things you think i should give a heads up for. Unbeta-ed. This is kind of new for me, so please be so kindly to hold my hand ;;;  
> here we go,

 

 

Minho eyes down the sidewalk from where he’s standing on the rooftop. The rush of lunch hour lures employees out of their convenient air conditioned cubicles into the hot sweltering air.  

Summer making everything humid and sticky, the moist heat that gets Minho scrunching his nose and wiping the sheen of sweat collecting under his chin with the back of his gloved hands. The collar of his shirt already damp with sweat, his suit abandoned somewhere near as he rolled the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows.

He craves for a cold shower, entertains the thought of dunking his head into a nice bowl of ice cold water when another bead of sweat glides down the side of his face. He ignores it this time. Showers can wait.

He’s good at waiting.

 _"Visuals?”_ comes the crackling slightly distorted sound of Changbin’s voice through his earpiece.

Minho raises his binoculars, shifting his focus between the throng of bodies walking the sidewalk. “Negative.”

_“It’s fifteen minutes passed 13.00.”_

Minho peers the entrance of the restaurant before he answers Changbin, “Yep, five minutes since the last time you checked, uh.. five minutes ago.”

 _"Yeah, he should be there already. He’s late.”_  

The image of Changbin drumming his fingers as he sits in front of his huge multiple HUD, eyes vigilantly sorting through the influx of datas, images streaming through the display monitors back at HQ is clear in Minho’s head. Minho fixes his comm and making it snug around his helix.

“Patience is a virtue, don’t anyone ever told you that?”

He’s not wearing any of his piercings today, learned early on how those can snag and it’s not an experience he’d like to relive.

 _“Lost mine a long time ago, ahjussi.”_ Changbin scoffs.”  _Can’t say i missed it though.”_

“We all lost something somewhere.” Minho says apathetically, “Which was it, patience or the virtue?”

 _"Both. Patience’s when joining this goddamn agency,”_ Changbin adds, “  _virtue back in 11th grade.”_

Minho’s eyebrow twitches at the cocky tone.

Changbin always been a smug bastard for as long as Minho knows him. Suppose he’d be too if he survived a direct gunshot to the head the way the Changbin did.

Let’s make things clear, it’s never roses and sunshine in their line of work, not even close, but cheating death? The way Changbin did? Staring it in its goddamn eyes when it comes. Giving it the ultimate clapback by staying alive.

It gives a guy one helluva bragging right for sure.

Minho suspects Changbin’s smugness comes way before the incident, though. But it’s alright. It’s a hard life they’re living. A good dose of confidence keeps you sane at times. Knowing who you are and how you got here. Knowing you  _survived_.

“To your right hand, was it?” Minho croons, just for the teasing fun of it.

" _Nope. To your mom.”_

“Fuck off.”

_"Bite me.”_

_"Gentlemen.”_ Woojin’s voice comes through this time.

Grinning, Minho keeps a close eye on the targeted location below him, scanning the surrounding area and the people milling about.

_“Did you noticed the gentlemen card is always out when we’re mucking about?  Like we gonna go disney princess catfight on each other so he gotta remind us we have dicks.”_

Woojin is most certainly standing beside Changbin looking at the monitors at this very moment and there’s no way he’s not listening in their conversation, but no one cares. Not Minho, not Changbin, hell, not even Woojin himself when the four of them been working together long enough to know each other like the palm of their hands. Creases and lines familiar almost to an embarrassing extent.

Minho zooms in towards a group of people crossing the street, “Dibs on Merida, she’d whoop your ass anytime anyday.” he hums. “That, and we both have great aims.”

From this distance those people look smaller, going about their lives without noticing they’re being watched. Observed.  _Studied._

This part of the job always makes him a bit nostalgic. It’s somewhat similar to birdwatching.  Done lots of those with his father when he was a kid.

“ _I must be fucking Cinderella with the amount of work everyone dumps at me all the fucking time, i don’t remember the last time i saw the sun. It’s bad for my health, y’know? I need me some Vitamin D and all that shit.”_

“Vitamin D, huh?” Minho comments.

“ _Was not making a pun i swear to god old man your brain.”_

Minho cocks his head aside lightly, the corner of his lips curling up  “My brain is fine. You love my brain. You love me.”

 _"No, i don’t.”_ Changbin deadpans.

“Ah, right. Wrong _Lee_.”

 _"Christ, give me a break.”_ Wheezes Changbin.

 

A petite girl  with grey top and vibrant yellow skirt stands out in the crowd, reminding Minho of a grey wagtail his father and he once stalked for hours just to catch a glimpse of.

The memory seems far and yet close at the same time in the way childhood memories sometimes are, like it was just yesterday that Minho had been nine and giddy about spending time with his father. But fifteen years had passed since then and Minho rarely gets giddy about anything now.

That doesn't mean that Minho doesn't get his interest roused once and a while.

Like right now,  as his eyes catches onto a figure that definitely got no business looking that bloody fine like it’s no big deal, leaning against the lamppost outside the restaurant he was keeping an eye on.

“Aren’t you pretty,” Minho murmurs under his breath, left hand digging into the pocket of his slacks then shoving a strip of gum into his mouth while steadying the binoculars with his right.

The guy looks young, lean, scrawny almost if not for how the track jacket hangs on his shoulders, unzipped casually over a white tee.  It tells Minho he’s built enough, wiry and sinewy by the look of it, lithe and taut in the way Minho knows his mind won’t be able to shake off later. 

Minho’s lived long enough to know his weaknesses. And this one seems like the embodiment of it. Standing with the brim of his snapback pushed back, hair trapped away from his forehead. Black, like the color of his jacket. Black, like the heavy smudge of kohl lining his eyes,  something sort of dangerous and exquisite mixing together with how tanned he is, the stretch of skin visible from the slope of his neck to the dip of his collarbones, smooth and sunkissed. A bronzed god basking in the sunshine.

Minho scans the area one more time, but somehow keep coming back to him.  Finding new things to add into the mental note already forming in his head, like the generous bouquet of red roses in one of his hand, a cigarette in his other. Smoke wisping up and twirling as he takes a drag and blows into the humid air with little care. Minho can almost taste the bitter nicotine on his own tongue, now prodding out to wet his bottom lip like a knee jerk reaction. He chews his gum with a little more vigor after that. He’s been trying to quit that’s all.

There’s a flicker, this sort of flare that blooms slowly under his breastbone. It’s a lot like the feeling he gets when he managed to spot a rare and beautiful bird emerging from its natural habitat. A certain kind of thrill, so to speak.

Breaking it down--at the core of it, it does possess the same principles, this  _thing_ he’s now doing and birdwatching, kind of.

It’s in the observing, studying the object that piques his interest and doing it quietly. It takes great amount of patience and effort to be stealthy, using all his senses to decide the perfect timing to move, should he even move at all. Staying close--but not too close, less he ruffle suspecting feathers, far--but not too far that they’d easily lost sight of their muse.

Muse, marks,  _targets,_ the term changes easily through the years.

Sometimes Minho thinks all their birdwatching days was his father’s way of grooming him into the job.

In the end, the lessons he’s given Minho on how to handle and aim a gun properly, the lessons on how to  _kill_ , kind of make it official.

Him dying on Minho was what really sealed the deal though. His father’s death left a vacancy and the agency thought Minho was the perfect replacement. Afterall, what’s better than a son continuing his father’s legacy?

"Lil piggy spotted, i repeat lil piggy is spotted." Minho reports when he finally catches sight of their target.

“ _About goddamn time,_ “ Changbin mutters.

A man in his forties, khaki shorts over floral summer shirt, an aviator shades perched on the crown of his head. He’s sweating profusely through his shirt, his pug-face all pinched in pink from the heat, and he has that  _look._ The look Minho learns to associate with a world of grime, fast dirty money going hand in hand with greed and loose morals.

Not his place to talk he knows, not when he’s making a living in the same way, kind of. Different kind of poison is still poison afterall. Still kills, still takes and takes and giving none back. One of these days he’ll take one look into a mirror and maybe find the same  _look_ staring back at him. But that thought is for later, a whole other can of worms Minho is not opening right now, not when he’s on the job. He has work ethics to uphold damnit.

The smug bastard is now sitting at his usual spot in the restaurant, that same outdoor seat by the windows. Minho counts one, two, three--five goons following suit, sitting in seats around him, two standing up by his sides, the usual set up, and Minho waits.

The thing about birdwatching, is that it’s taxing.

It requires endurance. It also builds patience, sharpens Minho’s eyes in catching movements from distance away while staying perfectly still. And he’s good at it. This waiting game. Striking only when he sees fit, when he spots an opening, a tender spot where it’ll hurt the most, where it’ll kill. But mostly, he waits.

When Minho was old enough to get drafted into the army it was easy to find him filling the position of a sniper, placed near the frontlines. Aside from his talent in handling firearms (which his father had drilled the knowledge into him it’s more of a skill than talent really, but Minho’s not about to tell his recruiting instructor that) , he has enough self-restraint and perseverance to hold his post for hours, days at times without giving way, no matter how grueling the circumstances was.

He’s passed those, the birdwatching days and the buzzcut teen soldier eager to please his superior commanding officers.

He’s a different kind of soldier now, pleasing different kinds of interest.  The hard tactical case perched near his feet--planted firm against the building’s rooftop he’s currently on-- is a testament to that.

There’s static before Minho can hear Changbin’s reply coming through his earpiece,  crackling a bit down the line.  
  
 _"Visual’ clear?"_  Changbin asks.  
  
"Crystal."  Minho answers firmly.

 _“Get in position and let’s get this thing done, boys.”_  It’s Woojin’s voice he hears this time.

Minho pulls at his collar, frees the first button of his shirt and loosen his tie. He abandons the binoculars to lift the AWM into position in his arms, silencer fitted in place already. He’s down on one knee--not the best position but it’ll do--squinting through the scope now, rolling his shoulder back slightly into the stance. The rifle’s weight is familiar as he tucks in, cheek against the buttstock, leaning gentle as if he’s folding himself into a lover’s embrace, although not quite. It's cold where there should be warmth. Solid instead of smooth pliant skin. The whisper of a lover replaced by a firm, unapologetic click of the safety catch being unlocked by Minho's finger.

 _"Big bad wolf on the way,"_ Changbin’s voice announces.

Scoffing at the codename, Minho spots Felix’s blond tuft of hair walking into the restaurant as planned, five minutes after the target arrived, punctual to a flaw.

He’s dressed like any other employee out there, white dress shirt, perfectly pressed slacks with a matching tie. Between his attire and the nerdy specs he’s wearing Felix looks nowhere near something bad and menacing as a  _wolf_. More like a puppy if he’s being honest. So it would be easy to say this is how Felix gets his perfect stats, because none of the people assigned to him ever saw it coming. Definitely not from a soft harmless person which Felix appears to be. But Minho knows better, Felix has a perfect kill stat because Felix is just  _that_ good.  
  
He should know. Felix is his baby brother after all.  
  
 _"Estimated contact in twenty seconds,"_ Changbin’s voice crackles through the comm.  
  
"Copy that." Minho affirms, chewing his now tasteless doublemint as he follows Felix through his scope.  

And that’s when Minho catches a glimpse of the young god he previously worshipped.

Still on the sidewalk, still looking damn pretty, still seemingly waiting, maybe for an appointment that failed to show? A lunch date perhaps? Waste of a pretty bouquet, Minho thinks. Waste of a pretty face, comes next thought.

Minho eventually leave his tanned god to focus on Felix, he is here as Felix’s support after all.

It’s a decision Minho will regret later, after a tiring debriefing at HQ, Changbin with a deep scowl on his face and Woojin looking not too different across the table.

But right now Minho doesn’t know that, eyes already trained and set on the way Felix looks composed as he closes the distance towards their target. The softness of his face ironically void of any emotion, his eyes dead as ever.

Felix nods then, an inconspicuous gesture to others, but to them, the start of a countdown.

_Ten, nine, eight, seven..._

To say that the carefully devised plan Woojin has crafted didn’t quite work is an understatement. The hours of briefing, with Woojin pointing out strategic protocols to take for such objective, Changbin drilling the plan back to them, main plan, backup plan, backup plan for the backup plan (looking very much not pleased about everything but that’s just how Changbin goes whenever it’s a kkangpae related job). A little overkill for what seems like a simple task if anyone ask Minho, but considering the sensitivity of the job, having oyabun’s eyes on them, it’s understandable.

_Five, four, three, two…_

All that planning and brain in one room and noone ever saw this coming.

_One…_

The target is dead.

Felix standing no more than three feet away from his lifeless body. His SIG Sauer is out and drawn, but no shots fired.

If Minho look closer he’d see Felix haven’t even switched the safety on yet.

Doesn’t change the fact that their target is already, positively, very much dead.

Head lolling back, body limp against his chair. A bouquet of pretty red roses stuck unnaturally against his torso, the petals crushed against the man’s chest as the hidden knife inside pierced clean through his heart. A deep red coloring his shirt, blooming pretty like the roses.

“Fucking hell.” Minho curses.

And then hell indeed breaks loose.

 

~

 

Minho was fourteen the first time he met Felix.

The boy had been small, so small sitting on the floor next to his mother with his head down. His shoulders were slim, his chest tiny, tucked under a black suit that was a bit too large for his too little body, the tips of Felix’s fingers peeking out from the sleeves. 

There were people walking back and forth. Minho lost count of the faces he seen, all the legs passing, trudging the path between the entrance and the altar as he too sits properly beside his own weeping mother.

He’s been sitting in the same place for three days, not even resting when his mother does. He’s the head of the family now. Well,  _his_ family at least, or so people tells him while the smell of incense, aromatic and fragrant and  _burnt_ forever ingrained in the back of his head.

Death is cloying and suffocating and Minho tells Felix later on that when he dies, he want his body cremated, his ash scattered into the sea, or into the Han river, or wherever the fuck Felix decided was a good place. Anywhere is fine. Just don’t keep him stored in a box. Under or above ground.

Coffins are suffocating. Flower wreaths and incense and weeping noises of people crying are suffocating and Minho wants none of that.

Minho wasn’t sure Felix understand him but the little boy had nodded, looking up to Minho with eyes puffy from too much crying.

 _Swear it_ , Minho had demanded him.

And even though Felix stopped talking to everyone else the day their father died, he still answered Minho.

 _I swear,...hyungnim._ Felix had said. The promise in his voice is lead heavy, the way it stings like a kitchen knife pressed deep enough to break the skin, leaving its mark there.

Minho was fourteen the first time he met Felix. His mother’s not exactly happy he warmed up so quickly to a half brother from his father’s mistress. His father’s  _whore_ , was her exact word. But Felix is his father’s son too (  _you don’t know that, we don’t know that!_ his mother had lashed on him. Minho doesn’t think much of it. He recognized that it’s all grieve talk ) and the responsibility of taking care of the family now falls on his shoulders.

He’s the head of the family and Felix is family.

So Minho promised to take care of Felix while he’s still living, and Felix promised to take care of Minho when he dies. It’s a good enough deal for Minho. As good as it gets in this kind of life he’s living.

 

Minho has been searching for hours.

He and Felix have a few rendezvous spots for when things doesn’t go as planned. Just like how the agency have security protocols, they also have their own protocols. To keep each other safe, to take care of each other, always. Minho checked a few of those places and is now heading for the one east from where the restaurant is located.

The restaurant job was a mess. It was supposed to be a simple  _lift n’lock,_ retrieve information--that would be Felix’s part, and dispose of the target--his part, convenient from a rooftop away, also safer for Felix. But Oh Jung Hae, their target, is dead anyway. Not by Minho’s hand. Not by Felix’s. But still, dead.

And Felix was caught in the middle of that clusterfuck.

Oh Jung Hae had henchmen with him and his henchmen has guns. So at the sight of their boss dead, while Felix was there with his gun out...well, it was  _something_.

Minho puts a bullet through the three of them, the other two was in a fistfight with Felix so he couldn’t risk it. They only have minutes before the place be crawling with people in uniform who have not only firearms but also license to kill them. Without a second to lose Minho bolts down the stairs after he tosses his rifle somewhere safe, covered it with tarp.

His thighs burn slightly when he finally exited the building, having chosen the stairs in place of elevators. But the pain feels good. Pain reminds him that he’s alive. Gets that adrenaline going and at times, the rush inside his vein is all that makes the difference between going home after a job or lying dead in a ditch somewhere with a hole in his chest.

But Minho’s not lying anywhere at the moment, he’s running. He’s running across the street to get to Felix because the damn kkangpae has sent in more people. It’s never simple when it’s a gang related job. Minho’s starting to understand why Changbin hated it so much but it's not like they have a choice. Well they do, kind of, just that the options are scarce.

 _You do the job or the job do you_ , Minho tells Changbin once, when he’s back after a solo gig and a grim faced Changbin was looking at him, at the blood stains in his white dress shirt.

It’s true. It’s that simple. They both know it, live and breathe by it. Refuse a stint and the next job your colleagues getting might just be you.

The agency is not here to hold your hand, not here to be your friend. They’re cutthroat masters with high demands. Fulfill their interests and get rewarded generously. Cross them and-- , forget it, no one ever turned their back and live to tell the story over a shot of vodka or gin. Not without the glass ending up crashed against their throat,  cutting the story off from their torn skin and flesh, blood bubbling out as they try to breathe, failing as their eyes rolls to the back of their heads.

 _There’s gotta be a better way in doing this, ahjussi._ Changbin murmurs, almost in a whisper as Minho picks out shards of glass that cuts into his glove, can still hear the crunch of it in his ear, the rip as it tore skin and muscles, the hiss when he knows he's cut through the airway. The stillness when a life is taken. He shrugs.

Minho has been doing this his whole life, if there is really another way, he never knows it.

 

Debriefing was an absolute agony. Nobody knows anything. Jooheon looking more pissed than ever, screaming off the top of his lungs and Woojin can’t play the middle guy for them. Changbin’s face unreadable save for the apparent scowl, but he promised to have more intel the next time they meet. Minho barely escaped police after making his way through the newly arrived goons with his fists and handgun. Felix is missing. 

There's also that other  _thing_  that bugs him. A thing that doesn't surface in his report, doesn't show up in all the cctv Changbin gathered. A ghost, an apparition. A fucking god. 

A god that bleed and a god that bruised. Not a god then. A mortal, with his wolfish smile and the glint of confidence in his pretty eyes. A liability that escaped because Minho couldn't pull his damn trigger. 

But right now his focus is to find Felix. They got separated when a van filled with angry looking goons arrived at the scene.

It’s not everyday a showdown involving firearms happens in Seoul, and the authorities was quick to jot it down as gang fight, especially with Oh Jung Hae’s history. Those same facts gave Minho a headache to explain to Jooheon and Woojin, because  _god_ , their agency works by the principle of subtlety, going in and doing their business by following protocols, and doing so quietly.

Definitely not with guns blazing in the middle of the city at midday with civilians everywhere.

He’s not dead, Minho knows this for sure. It would take more than a few thugs to kill Felix. That boy is resilient, bounces back after every blow, any blow. Hardened steel through and through. But that’s not saying he’s not at all harmed. Too many bullets flying and knives slashing and kkangpae’s goons always fight like they’re goddamn possessed.

 

The sound of sirens grabs Minho’s attention, wailing passes him as he keeps a cautious eye on them from behind the steering wheel, knowing full well they’re not the ones the police are chasing. Changbin already buried whatever footages the security cam has on them at the location

“Felix.” He calls.

It’s already dark when Minho finds him, squatting with his back against the wall on a side street. Head down, letting shadows keep his figure hidden.

Felix looks up, his face completely composed, eyes void of any signs of fear, apprehension. His eyes void of any semblance of emotions actually. Just that dead look Minho has come to be familiar with. 

“My phone’s bust.” Felix tells him.

“I figured. “ Minho huffs a breath, “C’mon, let’s go.“

Minho stretches his hand to him, palm facing upwards and Felix takes it, hoists himself up. There’s dried blood on his knuckles, blood on his white shirt, no longer crisp now that it’s slashed in some places.

A faint gash on Felix’s left cheek gets Minho’s attention the most, the blood already drying. Minho frowns. “You’re hurt.”

Felix shakes his head, shrugging off. “It’s nothing.”

Minho takes another look now that Felix is standing up, and although he’s not happy with the cuts and bruises, there’s no major injuries that he can see. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

“We’re going home ?” Felix follows Minho’s lead towards the car.  If Minho can hear a hint of uncertainty in Felix’s voice it’s because he knows the younger boy, not because it’s apparent in Felix’s flat tone.

“Yeah, we’re going home. Debriefing is over hours ago.” Minho hears himself say, half wondering where the hell home actually is.

It’s definitely not the apartment he’s currently sharing with Felix that’s for sure. It being the fourth place they’ve moved into this year, and it’s only been July. Changbin tells him he’s paranoid, but one really can’t be too careful, and being constantly on the move is safer. Woojin seems to understand.

It doesn’t seems to bother Felix, who nods to his hands, neatly folded on his lap. Eyes fixating so hard on his tucked palms until Minho reaches over to give a light squeeze on his knee. Only then he lifts his face to Minho, his mouth stretching into a soft smile.

Felix looks innocent this way, impossibly young. Nowhere near the look of somebody who would kill without batting an eye.

Minho thinks the only good thing left in his life is Felix. Apart from the body count they left between the two of them over the years, Felix is this, pure unfiltered goodness. Sometimes Minho likes to pretend that all Felix's goodness is enough to cover for Minho's blackened soul.

 

He helps Felix wash his hair when they get into their flat. Holding the younger under the warm spray of water afterwards to examine his wounds, touches gentle and careful. A couple of bruises, a few cuts, nothing serious. Minho never doubts Felix’s ability to keep himself safe. But he can't help but worry anyway.

It's a routine they have, patching up each other's wound after a job. Felix sitting on the countertop, feet hanging above ground like a small child as he waits for Minho to tend him. And Minho tends to him, attentively, meticulously, finding pressure bandages and disinfectant in their bathroom cabinets easily like they’re tylenol and bandaids. Only instead of a bottle of aspirin, they keep a glock 26 there, just incase they need something stronger than a painkiller. Something that just, well--,  _kill_.

Changbin calls to check up on Felix. Minho hands to phone to the younger who only gives a hum or a grunt in response to whatever Changbin is saying. It's still a lot than what Felix would offer anyone else.

Then after dinner Woojin calls him. Dishes done and dried and Felix is looking over his shoulder from where he’s sitting on their couch, a movie playing on the tv forgotten as he watches Minho take the call. His face stoic as ever.

“I understand.” Minho locks eyes with Felix. Another job is waiting for them tomorrow, not kkangpae related  _thank fuck_ , Minho can do so much without getting into gang territory. He always feels iffy about it, the agency was supposed to be neutral, serving their skill to the highest paying customer, but lately there’s too much gang errand falling into their hand. It’s tricky… it’s also not Minho’s part to think about so he pushes the thought away and calls it a day.

 

 

  


**Author's Note:**

> talk otps with me maybe? @noshipssgiven


End file.
